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He gave her silence in return. All was darkness, horror, confusion, ruin. A thing which had mystified her since childhood, a smouldering wonder why it should be, and until now she had never felt the urge to investigate. " "So it seems," observed the woollen-draper, "and for every one else, too. ” To remain, she felt, was to concede everything. The real tragedy—which he sensed and toward which he was always reaching—eluded all his verbal skill. Stay me with flagons, comfort me with apples, for I am sick of love. Then she stepped back into the empty room and stood for a moment looking down upon the scattered fragments of her last canvas. .
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